


Dust to Dust

by be11amy



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Forgotten Realms
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-18 10:25:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17579114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/be11amy/pseuds/be11amy
Summary: The trials and tribulations of Bijou Bourgeois: Trigger-happy sorcerer, neurotic bastard, and draconic pyrotechnic extraordinaire, all poured into one teapot-sized probably-human vessel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bijou is not a nice person. They're not a particularly kind person, either, but they do try. At least, that's what they tell themselves, when the space under their nails stays caked in ash no matter how long they spend trying to pick it out, and they can't stop the smoke threading between their fingers. Perhaps copious application of fire isn't how the town guard expected them to take care of the local bandit infestation, but it's getting harder and harder to keep the fire to themselves when people keep trying to hurt them.

The tails of your coat brush the ground when you crouch down, and it’s another frustrating tickle at the back of your mind that you’re going to have to deal with getting all of your things cleaned, _again_. A podunk town like this, you don’t trust the people to know what to do with fine materials, and the gods know you don’t know how to do it yourself, so it’s either risk getting the fine liner of your second nicest jacket ripped or stained, or… spend another several days dusty and twitchy about it.

Not that your companions seem to care. The dwarf - and you’ll side-eye anybody that gets on your case for calling him that when he introduced himself as Dwarf, capital D and all - you’re certain sleeps in his heavy chainmail when he can get away with it, and the shitstain that keeps dragging her wild wolf around actually went and slept in the stables and probably spooked every horse in the locality when the innkeep very reasonably barred the beast entrance.

And Jasha is untrained, you’re sure. Just because he leans heavy into your side sometimes, when your fingers start getting itchy and flaking little bits of ash to the ground doesn’t change the fact that he's actually bigger than your entire self, or that Ava and Shiv kept you up half the night absolutely failing to teach him ‘speak.’ What the hell kind of canine pet-beast-companion-whatever can't even bark? Isn't that usually what people try to train _out_ of dogs?

Besides, you don’t need much of that whole 'leaning on' thing anymore. You’ve been sticking by the quiet one, a half-elf (and you don’t think ‘mongrel,’ or else you think it and try not to) spellcaster of some sort. Magic doesn’t come as easily to him as it does to you, judging by the spellbook he carries around and carefully presses flowers into when nobody is watching him too closely. Despite that, you do like the thought that not everybody here is an idiot that gets by via slamming their cudgel into someone’s scalp or, in Ava’s case, luck and spit every time she runs ahead clanging her dagger over her sword when she gets impatient about the group’s bickering. You’re trying to make this excursion as effectively speedy as you can already, you think, with liberal application of magical fire, so you don’t know what she has to be tetchy about - all she’s done, in your opinion, is get you attacked by a some bandit on the roadside when she wouldn’t stop making all that damn noise.

And then _you_ had to flambe the poor bastard and his stupid ferret when she got stabbed, and the fucking dwarf got stabbed, too, except at least Ava got stabbed by someone attacking her and not one of your band of incompetents accidentally shoving her damn dagger between what is probably the one and only chink in the dwarf’s shoulder plating.

You still don’t trust that former-innkeep girl, or whatever she is. She’s awfully young to be traipsing around the woods. Actually, she’s probably around your age, and you’re _definitely_ too young for your joining up with these people to not be shady as hell, so you know what you’re talking about on that front.

At any rate, you do like the quiet wizard - he doesn’t ask you stupid questions, mostly because he doesn’t really talk at all except to murmur quiet incantations between his fingers that explode into blinding, brilliant missiles. Actually, he talks so little that you're not entirely sure what his name is. He might've said it once, but you lost it in the slew of introductions, and you're generally bad at remembering the names of people you don't initially assume you'll be seeing for much longer. He gestures a lot, though. Some of his gestures, you recognize, because they’re the same sort that flow from you naturally when you cast (or unnaturally when you can’t stop yourself from casting), but others…

You’ve been trying to watch him, figure out what they mean, and you can’t tell if he’s just a lot more well-studied than you when it comes to magic, or if he was in the military to learn so many hand signals, or what, but you figure that so long as you have the excuse of not knowing what the hell he’s on about, then you don’t have to actually reply. He was probably part of some group of brigands, anyways. There's no way he knows more magic than you do. You don't care so long as he doesn't needle you like Ava keeps doing.

That’s probably pretty misleading about yourself. You’re good at talking to people, usually - you know what to say to make people like you, to get them to stop thinking about hurting you, and you know what to say to make them afraid of _you_ hurting _them_ if you need to. But the bandit that you and Ava dispatched yesterday, that threw you off. You strung the man up in a tree by his own shirt, and it wasn’t a very nice shirt, either. Old, tattered, easy to tear into the strips required to tie together a makeshift noose. You frankly suspect that the suicide note you left on his body is what gave you away to the hunter that passed by in the morning - who knows if someone like that would even be _literate_.

But you know how to read, and that won’t help you any if you end up like him. Dirty and lost and alone except for the company of some filthy animal, and no choice but to risk your life taking on a band of well-armed strangers in the woods just to get the coin you need for food.

Damn it.

You shouldn’t have killed the man.

You know this. You knew this then, actually, and you did it anyways, because his fucking ferret sank its teeth into your leg and he was coming at you swinging with an old, rusted shortsword already coated in Ava's blood, just like you did it five minutes ago to a man twice your size just for putting a hand on the giant club hanging on his waist. Only, he was looking at you like he very well knew that he was twice your size and was thinking of using that to his advantage, and you and the dwarf were ages scouting the head of the rest of your ragtag bunch, and you couldn’t stop thinking about that thing slamming into your head and dislocating your jaw and turning your teeth into a pulpy mess of gore and blood and crunching bone - and then you couldn’t stop thinking about something else slamming into your head, and by the point you shook _that_ off, you were already looking at your own hands, thrust forward with thumbs touching and fingers spread, and he was a pile of bone dust and stinking char on the ground.

And now it's nobody's fault but your own that you’re getting said bone dust onto your coattails as you crouch down in front of his buddy. The poor sap is barely conscious, leaning against the tree that your companions tied him to. You were trying not to kill him, you actually took the time to rack your mind for a way to stop him running that wouldn’t hurt, and a mage hand around the ankle doesn’t stop the sickening twist in the pit of your stomach when his eyes flicker over your shoulder to the smoldering, blackened remains of his friend.

Not sick enough to lean over and stop him looking, though, and you let flames lick up your wrist and fingers again, easy as breathing. Easier than breathing, sometimes. You wiggle them in front of his face to catch his attention, and watch a bead of sweat trace a clean path through the soot caked onto his temple. Or maybe it's water - you'd dumped half your waterskin over his head to try and wake him up, and he must be hurting pretty badly that it scarcely helped. He looks pretty sick.

“Hey,” you say, “Like, mister barbarian, sir, guy? I’m gonna need you to go ahead and take us to… your leader, I guess, before I get tired of holding onto this fire here and shove it down your throat instead.”

You have time to watch his lips peel back from his teeth in a wicked snarl before voices erupt behind you at that, squawking about how you need him alive, and a hand on your shoulder yanks you back to sprawling flat on your ass. The flame flickers out and you yelp - and then you barely have time to scramble to your feet before Ava and the overly young and overly-stabby barkeep are muscling their way in to make sure the bastard is okay. It's just as well. The man spits viciously, and Shiv pulling you back means it hits the innkeep girl's shoe instead. 

You shouldn't feel hurt. You’ve killed two people in as many days, and it’s not like they're any better - it's not long before people are arguing about whether they should toss him into the river and leave his life up to fate. Maybe you just thought that a straightforward question might be a kinder mercy than the glazed shine that the innkeep girl presses into his eyes when she flutters her hands around her waist and asks him if he could be so kind as to show you all the way to where his friends are staying.

But Ava is already calling you the party ‘boomstick,’ between mocking your accent and telling you that, hey, now they’ve got two of you when the dwarf goes off half-cocked and nearly gets swept away by the river for the second time because he’s so convinced that he’s got the right of it.

You want to snipe back that she’s the one always running ahead, and if it wasn’t for her stupid wolf and _you_ , then one of the forest bandits you lot are trying to clear away from preying on the depressingly poor locals would be _wearing_ her by now. You don’t, though, because you’re busy trying to balance yourself across the slick river stones without getting too wet, boots lifted high over your head, and also because she’s only wrong in the sense that boomsticks have a fuse and you just tend to spontaneously conflagrate whenever your brain goes hazy.

It would be nice for some credit, is all. You’re the one who thought to stretch a rope across the river, to make it easier for everyone to cross. You’ve been protecting all of them with the magic sizzling through your veins, not just yourself. You even let them pretend to tie your hands behind your back and drag you up to the weird fucking heretic sun-god temple to get pretend-sold to the bandits as _bait._ And, you should be clear, _that's_ been the easiest lie to sell all week because you don’t think you could have stopped yourself from thrashing about even if you _weren’t_ supposed to be playing captive. So what if sometimes you need a quiet wizard placing a hand on your upper arm and tugging before you can close your fists around the ash building in your palms? You’ve been _useful_.

You’ve been useful. You _are_ useful. And you’re good at what you do, and you’re going to build a name for yourself that outgrows all of these losers. A name so big that it brings Adelaide Bourgeois - that brings your _mother_ running down the steps of her ivory castle next time she sees you. You're going to stride up to the gates, confident in your legitimacy as any of your half-siblings, and she’s going to throw her arms out. And you’re not even going to get twitchy about it, because she’s going to throw them around your shoulders and tell you ‘welcome home,’ and… she’s not the thankful type, not usually, but maybe later, more quietly and in the privacy of your rooms, she’ll tell you that you did well.

And it won’t matter, the rest of it. It won’t even matter at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many adventurers does it take to open a box?
> 
> In the end, four, but Bijou swears it wasn't their fault.

When you descent into the temple, everything goes a little bit dim. The barkeep girl complains of the darkness, and you take it to mean that she doesn’t see you wrinkle your nose at her. You saw her, upstairs, pocketing an expensive gem and the heftiest pouch of coins that you’ve seen on any of these bandits. She’s disingenuous and overdramatic. It’s not _that_ dark in here.

You should know! You are disingenuous and overdramatic, yourself, and you don’t appreciate those qualities in others.

Still, you can’t complain overmuch. You’re surrounded by corpses, and you’re in the best mood you’ve been in all week.

The mood is unrelated to the corpses, of course. Well, mostly - you suppose it is related in the sense that if these people were not currently corpses, you would have had significantly more trouble acquiring the lovely, fur-trimmed coat you are straightening about your shoulders.

It’s a lovely coat. Surprisingly well-kept for a bunch of bandit-cultist-whatevers, and from the dusty smell of it you suspect they picked it off one of the merchants they’d robbed and never worn it. It’s of quality make - very similar to the sort of thing you wore back home, though with entirely different motifs. You found it in a wooden chest that you almost considered burning through to get into, suspecting a small hoard of treasure - but Shiv darted ahead of you, and you resigned yourself to watching them break their hand trying to punch the thing open like some kind of lunatic.

They did punch it, but you suppose you’re not the only sturdy one in the group. You couldn’t hit something that hard to save your life, you don’t think, and all they did was shake out their hand after and kick the damn thing open. You _are_ very glad you didn’t burn the crate open - your new coat would have gone up in flames with it! You don’t give half a damn about the silver and copper in there when you finally have something new and decent to wear.

Besides, you’d rather _look_ like two hundred and fifty gold than _have_ two hundred and fifty gold. You have plenty of money - well, compared to what you had before you started judiciously murdering bandits, anyways. This extermination gig really is pretty profitable. The townspeople haven’t even paid you yet, and you’ve dug through the pockets of enough slowly-cooling bodies pay for a month of fine living.

Or one and a half healing potions, you suppose.

It’s a good thing you’re not in the habit of letting anyone smack you around. (Anymore.) The fur on your new acquisition is too nice to get scuffed.

At any rate, the fighting is all done now. There was quite the dramatic scene, with Shiv on the floor covered in a strange black goo that seemed to be burning them alive, Dwarf desperately flailing a torch overhead. Both of their eyes blew wide when they saw you in the doorway, and your smile was probably a little bit feral when you lobbed a four-inch firebomb into the room with them.

(They had nothing to worry about. You aimed for the barrel the thing was coming out of - but it was fun to see the looks on their faces, and eminently more satisfying to realize that Shiv was going to let you do it anyways, just like they let you put your hands together and bring forth a wall of flame unto them and their attackers in the temple above.)

(You need to be nicer to Shiv, probably.)

“Hey, _Shiiiiiiiiiiv_ ,” you call, and step over a corpse and into a scruffy little room with a very similar trunk to the one you’d found previously. This one has a dull shine to it, certainly some sort of metal significantly hardier than the half-rotted wood Shiv punched open.

“What?”

“Can you come punch open this box for me?”

You get no reply, but footsteps immediately thump down the hall, and Shiv practically leaps over the bandit corpse you just circumvented.

“Hell yes,” is all you get before they’re winding back, and you barely have time to wince for their hand before they’re slamming it down in a crushing blow onto the joint of the container.

You take a careful and deliberate step back, circumspect.

The box doesn’t open.

The box does, however, hiss slightly. You’re halfway through the incantation for another bolt of fire when something small and hard to see zips out of the lid at Shiv, and there’s a half-second for you to hold your breath in wary anticipation before they keel over, groaning.

“Shiv?” you ask.

“ _Ugh_.”

“Shiv, are you okay?” you ask.

They fall over, and stop moving.

You crouch down, and realize with a deep-set satisfaction that the tails of _this_ coat don’t drag along the floor when you do. Then, you backhand Shiv across the face.

Shiv doesn’t move, except to flop over slightly with the force of your blow. You hit them… well, it wasn’t a love tap, but you seriously doubt that you lack the physical strength to hurt this particular halfling. They just punched open a wooden crate and then continued to punch an iron one, and dragging a hand over their knuckles shows you just the bare beginning of bruising starting to form. You’re pretty sure that if you’d tried that, your fingers would be in splinters.

Hm. Maybe you could take a go with an elbow slam, and use the one with scales over it. That side of your body’s pretty sturdy, even if you’re not strong. Still, the thought of smacking your funny bone doesn’t appeal right now. Besides, Shiv’s probably fine. They’re still breathing.

You grab Shiv’s chin and move their face back to where it was before you slapped them, and stand up. Your back cracks with the motion, and you wince. You’re pretty sure your back isn’t supposed to crack at age seventeen. You’re so fucking done with sleeping on bedrolls.

The room itself is pretty barren. There’s a utilitarian bunk setup that consists of two beds stacked on top of each other and secured with wooden boards and rope, a barrel of wine that’s aged so long it’s turned to vinegar that you’re not touching after the situation with the ooze, the metal box that Shiv lost to in a fight, and… you, pretty much. The floor is dusty stone, the walls are slightly less dusty stone. There’s a torch sconce in the wall, but you prefer suffering through dim lighting to catching the attention of the undoubtedly friendly individuals you heard whispering around the hallway bend.

You should probably get Shiv into one of the bunk beds.

“Hey, Dwaaaaaaaaaarf,” you call softly, perfectly mimicking the tone you hit when you called for your nursemaid for something you both knew was silly that she was definitely going to help you with anyways. “Shiv hurt themselves. Can you come help me open this box?”

There’s a grunt, and the thump of something fleshy hitting stone. Right. Dwarf is tying up your hostage. “I’m a little busy over here!”

You sigh. Shiv really is the best of the lot. Then, you start rummaging around the bunks.

You probably should have looked for a key before asking Shiv to punch the metal box open, but also Shiv is a sentient person with the ability to make decisions, and the way they grinned at you before hitting the box was definitely conspiratorial. You will take no blame for this.

Still, you’re not exactly a professional detective, and you manage to flip over two moldy-looking pillows before the whole thing grosses you out and you decide that this is probably the part that someone else should do.

Turning around, you step over Shiv to head over and properly fetch Dwarf - and freeze.

There, laying by the corner of the iron trunk, is something small and glimmering.

“I take it all back,” you whisper to yourself, “I _am_ a detective. I am the _best_ detective.”

You lean over, too excited to worry about your sore back, and grab for the key, and -

“Ow!”

Nevermind, you’re a fucking idiot.

A fucking idiot that just nicked themselves on a very shiny needle pointing out of a very shiny partly-filled vial, and, wow, that’s getting dizzy, it was really very nice of Shiv to take most of the dose for you, and.. and you’re just going to lean on this wall, over here, and press the back of your hand to your forehead, not because you’re swooning or anything ridiculous like that, but because you should look appropriately distressed when Dwarf finally comes over to help you out.

“Dwarf,” you call, hoarse, “You didn’t come help when I asked and Shiv hurt themselves.”

There is a very distant exclamation, and you’re not actually sure if Dwarf swears or if it was the formerly passed-out bandit that he was off tying up that spits a pejorative when Dwarf drops him and rushes over, but it’s gratifying regardless. Clearly you know how to get people over.

You arrange yourself a little more pathetically against the wall, and try not to sag over in a way that makes it too obvious that you’re seeing two Dwarfs (Dwarves?) when he bursts into the room.

You produce a moue.

He’s busy staring at Shiv, who has moved only insofar as to curl themselves up into a fetal position on the stone floor.

“What _happened_ here?” he blurts. “I left you alone for two minutes!”

“It was more like five,” you mumble, and the words trip over themselves on the way out badly enough that you’re not sure you just made a coherent sentence. Fuck. _Fuck_. This is not the fun kind of acid. You really hope Shiv is okay.

“And it wasn’t - don’t look at me like that!” you exclaim, pressing your swooning-pose hand to your chest. Your other one is busy stabilizing you against the wall. “It wasn’t _my_ fault. I was just - you know Shiv. They hit all of their problems. I asked them for help to open that trunk over there, so they punched it, and it just made this, like - this huge puff of some weird smoke, and I was _very_ helpfully standing by in case they needed assistance, so of course it got me, too, through _no_ fault of my own, and -”

It’s over the top, of course, but so is everything you do.

“- and I feel _terrible_ and Shiv is hurt,” you finish, sniffing exactly once.

Dwarf looks up at you for a long, long moment.

You stare back, and chew on the inside of your cheek.

The moment stretches ever-longer.

And Dwarf sighs, looking away. “Yeah, yeah, no need for the waterworks, I got you. Here, help me get Shiv up on this bunk and let’s get this thing open.”

You stumble over, and end up hindering Dwarf moreso than helping as he tries to maneuver Shiv. Luckily, a halfling doesn’t weigh much, even one that’s got to be made of sturdier stuff than the average person to go around punching metal, and you can’t even bring yourself to care about the moldy pillows when you drape back onto the shitty bunk bed.

There had better be something really fucking good in that stupid trunk.


End file.
